


Black Mirror (You can't watch your own image / And also look yourself in the eye)

by art_brutal



Category: Bandom, Music RPF, Panic At The Disco
Genre: AU, gratuitous melodrama, hipster dive bar, non-band, open mic night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-26
Updated: 2011-07-26
Packaged: 2017-11-04 06:16:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/390702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/art_brutal/pseuds/art_brutal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brendon never meets the other Panic boys and never joins a band. He remains a committed part of the Mormon community until something inside him drags him to a concert at a bar on the other side of town and he sees all the things that could have been.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Black Mirror (You can't watch your own image / And also look yourself in the eye)

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Totally made up. And I know very little about The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, so please forgive any errors. Title is from 'Black Mirror' by Arcade Fire.
> 
> Also posted to [Livejournal](http://art-brutal.livejournal.com/2180.html).

Brendon looked around at the bar: ironically nostalgic posters on the walls, a chalkboard menu of idiosyncratically titled local brews, a cabal of the city's musicians and music fans in seemingly random charity shop attire that adhered to a strict but unknown (to him) dress code. He looked down at his plain, boring suit and well-shined shoes. Hastily he yanked off his plain, boring tie and stuffed it into his back pocket, along with any stray thoughts of the wife who had given it to him. His fingers brushed against the red guitar pick he'd found on the ground after the only rock concert he'd ever been to - the one he snuck out after curfew for, the one that made his parents send him to bible camp at every available opportunity. He didn't remember pocketing it that morning.

The three days' worth of stubble he had earned while sleeping on the couch made him feel marginally less incongruous in the bar, yet there was a needling worry that one of the pub's denizens would glance his way with a look that may as well be a spotlight and label him as different, an imposter, unwelcome. He chuckled inwardly at the fact that his wrinkled shirt and facial hair would gain him similarly derisive looks if he went to temple right now.

He saw a cosy lesbian couple with matching haircuts, t shirts and bad posture. He took in the grandpa/granddaughter pair, braying with laughter and sharing a pitcher of beer. His eyes slid past the narrow-hipped sound technician, his regulation black cut-off cargos slipping low to reveal a flash of studded belt and a small strip of skin. He dimly heard the cacophony emanating from the stage, something involving keyboards and strings and overwrought vocals about Jesus, but not his Jesus.

Every second feeling more and more conspicuous, his eyes settled on the merch table, around which most of the evening's musicians were congregated, and he saw him. Or he saw his outfit: narrow pinstriped trousers and shiny winklepicker shoes, more ostentatious than smart, and that vest. Roses worked in scarlet velvet wound around the lithe torso of a pretty young man with a painted face. And he heard his voice, low and brash, letting forth a darkly sarcastic laugh. To Brendon's eyes he looked so . . . different. It was as if he was moving in his own orbit, his galaxy remote and glamorous, untouched by earthly worries. Brendon was sure he didn't live a life of routine: work and temple and home to bed by 10pm.

With a glass in hand of what the bartender assured him was a "totally awesome" beer, he made his way to an empty table, hoping that this intriguing man was a performer and hadn't filled his spot on the bill yet. And desperately trying not to delve into what it meant that he cared. The brew was heady. He was not used to it or the warm buzz that softened the room's edges and his doubts.

He he tried not to think of Rachel at home, Rachel with her sensible shoes, faded coral mouth and gentle way of loving him. He tried not to think about what he was looking for, what he wanted, what he could possibly hope to gain that wouldn't result in him losing more.

Three pints of microbrew in and the music seemed to mock him. Sappy sentiment and bland vagaries about positivity and fulfilling dreams were held aloft by Southern-accented, heavily undulating voices. The large huskily-voiced lady on vocals sang about God and love and destiny but it seemed wrong, cheap, hollow, and not a patch on the passion he regularly heard in his church choir.

And then the object of his interest took to the stage, acoustic in one hand, whisky in the other and that same laugh in his throat. Brendon's ears strained to pick out the unamplified replies he made to comments from the front of the small, incestuous crowd. He gazed at the strange, colourful apparition on the stage and, for a second, imagined himself in his place.

"Hey," the man began, eventually stepping up to the mic. "I'm Ryan and we'd like to sing you some songs."

Brendon started and rose from his seat, knocking it over behind him. The singer's head whipped up at the sound and, for a second, they locked eyes as recognition seemed to flash between them.

But then it was gone, or was never there, and he turned back to face his drummer, to count him in.

Brendon turned and stumbled towards the exit, fleeing the scene of his possible salvation, his adulterous intention, his ability to change the course of his despised life, running to avoid his fantasies being realised. As he thudded down the steps outside the shabby building in a part of town he vowed to never visit again, as some beautiful chords started up and echoed, distorted, through the heavy wooden doors, a red pick fell from his pocket and tumbled, unnoticed, to the ground, where it was swallowed by a puddle of oily stagnant rainwater.

 

The end.


End file.
